The Huygens Principle
by Sarah Elmira Royster Poe
Summary: A glimpse of Sherlock and Mycroft when they were younger. A reunion, a study in the reflection of light, mummified insects and a family dinner. Synesthesia. First chapter beta'd by IridescentIndividual!
1. Prism

~Beta'd by the wondeful IridescentIndividual. Thank you again!~

Chapter 1: Prism

It was a Sunday morning and the sun was particularly bright, despite the chilling cold. Douglas, our librarian, was re-organizing our books. Father was fixatedly insistent about the taxonomy of our titles following the Dewey Decimal Classification System, and the entire staff was in an uproar. I had offered, voluntarily, my help. The monotonous work did not require any intellectual involvement and my mind was able to race, thrive, go through all the possibilities and strategies, while my hands were busy cataloguing and categorizing books.

A thing I knew well, for I had been raised inside this library. I knew the smell of these books. The rustling sound when you were turning the pages. The countless hours I spent laid in the thick carpet by the large windows, while the sun was caressing the spacious room. Our father always drew the curtains, studying with nothing but a lamp above his papers. He demanded my studying to undergo under the same circumstances, but I could not abide in his command, no matter how hard I tried. I could not help but feel smothered. I used to have dreams; I was buried and above me a pile of books. The darkness engulfed me and no one was able to hear my screams. The thick carpet was smothering my cries of agony. I used to wake up sweating. Once my unease was noticed by the little Sherlock, no more than 5 years old at the time, and when I woke up, I found him cradled in my arms and tugging my sleeve anxiously. The worry in his eyes was troublesome. He cared _too_ much.

So, there I was, in section 801, when I heard some muffled shouting and hollow thuds. Oh… There were fighting. _Again_. I hoped Sherlock was outside. He was oversensitive, he could not bear all the shouting and screaming. He did not let anything go - at least he tried not to - but it was glaringly obvious, to anyone who was observant enough. I handed over some archive files to Douglas, whose eyes betrayed worry and were questioning me hesitantly. I raised my eyebrows. Some things were better left unsaid.

Hours passed and bliss took the place of chaos in my racing mind. I stood by the window and gazed at the green fields. _How beautiful_. The countryside always cleared my mind. It made me feel calm. I turned to leave, to tend to my mother's needs, when a black dot caught my eye. Startled, I glued my face to the windowpane and I fixed my gaze, _intently_. The black dot was getting bigger and bigger, as it got closer and closer, and a form was soon noticeable. It was a skinny, pale boy, with dark, messy hair, with mud on his shoes, bloody knees and flushed pink cheeks, which matched his wide smile.

Oh thank God! He had not heard the fighting then! A little sigh of relief escaped me.

"Sir, would I open the door to welcome your brother?" Douglas was addressing me politely, conversationally. His words though, were confining another meaning.

"No, Douglas, thank you. I would open the door."

I turned on my heels and walked with long strides hurriedly. I opened the door immediately, as carefully as I could, to avoid cracking the wood. As soon as I came face to face with my little brother, he leaned to hug me and opened his mouth to greet me – cheerfully with no doubt - but I was quick enough to cover his mouth with my palm and drag him inside, closing the door quietly. I pointed to our room upstairs, and I stopped him from using the central stairs. We took the help's stairs instead. Once we were safe and sound in my old room, the latched himself on me and wrapped his arms around me tightly; my name a chant at his tongue.

"Quiet!" I shushed him, but the smile on my face did not permit my tone to be as stern as I would like. He looked at me with smiling eyes.

"You came back," He said breathlessly.

"Of course I did. Haven't I promised you?"

"Yes you did," He replied solemnly.

"Now, get dressed properly, wash your face and comb your hair. What were you thinking? Showing up in that state at the front door! What if someone else had opened the door? What if father had?"

His face straightened and looked at me worriedly.

"You wouldn't tell, would you?"

"Of course not! I would never do such a thing. Now tell me, what were you doing outside?"

His face lightened up. "Oh, look!"

He hurried to retrieve some black voluminous cases from under his bed. He presented them to me gleefully; one hand trying to unbutton his muddy shirt and the other fidgeting with the metal latch of the case.

"Let me. What is it?"

I opened the silver latch and was astonished to see hundreds of insects and moths, butterflies and bugs, all preserved in liquid resin. My eye caught a beautiful deep blue cerambyx. I removed it carefully from the velvet case and held in at the sun with my index and thumb at the sides. The colours were mesmerising, varying from iridescent blue, to opalescent purple. The resin was spotless, clear and smooth resembling a Bohemian crystal. _Perfect_.

"Well done, dear brother." He beamed. "Well done, indeed."

I repositioned the little transparent specimen, but as the sun rays passed through it, the resin acquired the qualities of real crystal and became a prism, beautiful colours emerged and ornamented the beige walls. I stopped my movement and set to admire that little miracle of nature. Sherlock noticed my immobility and came near me.

"It's just physics. Light changes speed as it moves from one medium to another, from air into the glass of the prism. This speed change causes the light to be refracted and to enter the new medium at a different angle. This is the "_Huygens_ _Principle_". The degree of bending of the light's path depends on the angle that the incident beam of light makes with the surface, and on the ratio between the refractive indices of the two media. This is the "_Snell's_ _Law_". The refractive index of many materials varies with the wavelength or colour of the light used, a phenomenon known as dispersion. This causes light of different colours to be refracted differently and to leave the prism at different angles, creating... this" He pointed at the wall behind me, not even bothered to spare a glance at the beautiful colours. _Strange_, I remembered he was fascinated with such things, when he was younger. This cold detachment had not always been present at his voice.

"You know I never occupied my mind with the Disciplines. I had other… troubles, but perhaps I could have sacrificed some of my time. Maybe I will in the future." I still had my gaze fixed on the little bug, admiring both its immaculate condition and the light.

"Does that mean that you are returning here?" His tone changed too, akin to a child's pleading. "Oh, please, do stay with us, even for a little while!"

"You know I want to! But my work keeps me very busy, Sherlock." I had my back still turned at him.

"But, I am terribly lonely here," he whined. "The other children at the school are tedious, boring and-"

"School? Don't you have private tutors?"

"Yes I do, but mother insists on my attending schools every now and then, to enhance my… _social_ _skills._" He snorted derisively at the words.

"Don't you agree?"

"Mycroft! You, of all people? You should understand that there is no immediate necessity to obtain such _skills_!"

"You are wrong, dear brother. These qualities are of _paramount_ importance!"

"So what? I must learn to be considerate? I must learn to be sociable? These precious qualities of yours cannot be acquired by tutoring or by force."

"I am sure that you could present a heavenly sight, a model of impeccable behaviour, if you wanted to. _If_ you must, and _when_ you must."

He turned to look at me with these all-comprehending eyes. He was buttoning a white collared shirt. Failing at it, miserably.

"Here, allow me." He looked at me shyly and his face reddened. I buttoned his shirt correctly this time and he squirmed with discomfort.

"Sherlock, you do understand that dressing without a valet will become a reality at some point of your life, don't you?"

"Trivialities." He muttered.

"Essential trivialities, though." He rolled his eyes and fumbled with his trousers and laces.

"So, what are you doing in London? Is it interesting?" his voice sounded deliberately conversational and aloof, but his worry and curiosity was evident. I smiled, turning my back at him this time and with practiced detachment I added:

"Tiresome work. But I work myself slowly but steadily up there."

"There?" Sudden silence fell as the rustling of clothes stopped. I could not but grin widely, as I knew he was not able to notice my smirking.

"Are you… Are you coming back? I mean… Are you to stay here after you have _worked_ _yourself_ _up_ _there_?"

"No, Sherlock." My tone was firm. I turned to face him, expecting a mournful face, maybe a tear. I would comfort him, whispering meaningless promises while he would cry. However, my eyes met his porcelain back. The white shirt he put on so gracefully barely held any contrast with his paper-white skin. He turned to look at me abruptly. Cold eyes that held a stern gaze. I was taken aback. These eyes did not reflect the kindness, the humanity in him. They conveyed hatred and anger. They resembled mine. What an unfathomable response! _Good_.

"I see." He said. "I think I am ready. Do you?" He stretched his arms and inspected his appearance at the mirror.

"Yes." I was proud and petrified of him at the same time. What could have triggered such an abrupt change of demeanor? I was not a fool. I knew that something had changed in the period of my absence. I should have realised the moment I had walked in that cursed house, but then, it still eluded me.

"Shall we go then?" I had stalled, lost in contemplation.

"Yes, of course." I gave him a small, wary smile. He remained completely solemn and stared at me.

"Carefully, Mycroft," He said. "All lives end, all hearts are broken. _Caring_ is not an advantage. These are _your_ words."

"Quite right. Right, you are." How _peculiar_! My thoughts ventured in dangerous paths, but I was quick to tame them. Theorizing before you acquire all the data, is irresponsible. One would bend the data to fit to the theory, rather than bending the theory to fit to the data.

We exited the room and went down the central stairs this time. I felt the white marble strangely cold under my feet.

"Mycroft, dear! You are back!" a female voice exclaimed. Before I could even open my mouth to greet her, Sherlock was already at her side.

"Mother, you should not be out of bed!" he addressed her with a sweet smile, eyes full of worry. Faked smile. Faked worry. Father was visible behind the thin figure of our delicate mother. He reached and rested his right hand at the right shoulder of our beloved mother, but he didn't simply rest his palm. He clutched his fingers possessively, grabbing her, wanted to accentuate his authority. I imagined her porcelain complexion being marked, his nails breaking her frail skin. It made me nauseous.

"Mother, how good to see you again!" Another forced smile, that time was mine. My own words tasted bitterly.

"Mycroft, I learnt of your arrival, but we were very busy, as you can imagine." His voice sounded like honey. It sent shivers down my spine.

My mother spoke ever so sweetly: "Yes, My." She took a step forward, my father followed close behind her. "Your father is being wonderful with helping me recover. He does not even leave my side. I am ever so grateful." His eyes glistened for just a fraction of the second at the hearing of these words, and then he masterfully contorted his face to resemble a smile. Another fake smile. My mother looked at him adoringly and smiled; this time a genuine smile.

"So, shall we dine?"

Sherlock's voice broke the silence with its crystal clear quality. He climbed down the last stairs and proceeded to aid our mummy with her walking, by holding her arm in arm but he was met by the gold glare of the hideous man; his name I cannot and will not utter. Sherlock retrieved his arm gracefully, masquerading his unrequited offer for support, to a gesture, by straightening awkwardly his collared shirt. I met his stern gaze and he nodded curtly.

We sat at the long dinner table, our positions assumed perfectly. We could have been mistaken for a perfect, happy family, except… no we could not have been. Not even by the most unobservant, naïve fool. The table was abundant, the help serving all kind of appetizers, main courses and desserts. Small spoon, big spoon, small fork, big fork. Grapes, salmon, cheese, wine. Prosperity, where destruction was lying hidden. Grief masked clumsily with happiness.

"So, Mycroft, have you finished with your studies, or not yet?"

"I am nearly done, Father. Nearly." It was always _"Father"_ with him. Never _"dad"_ or God forbid _"papa". _His authority was absolute.

"I heard you have already proved your value. The Ambassador holds you in the highest regard." Sherlock, swallowed down a scoff. Father's eyes narrowed.

"The Ambassador?" I asked with fake interest, desperate to divert his intense gaze.

"Yes. We were having a soiree the other day and your name was mentioned."

"What an honour!" I exclaimed with pretentious modesty. Sherlock could not suppress a grin. The idiot!

"Is there something wrong, Sherlock?" my brother's name at the lips of his own father, sounded like a curse. His eyes were murderous.

I had long contemplated about his cyclothymic moods. About his ability to cover every single change of his emotions, the fleeting appearance of his turbulence only the glimmer of his eyes; the only remnant, the only indicator to prove there was any. It should be inherited, of course. I had mastered this ability long ago. Sherlock seemed to employ this technique only when absolutely necessary, sometimes not even then, his self preservation instincts were failing him. No, our behaviour was different from this foul creature's. Father was pretending, not out of necessity, but of choice. Let's say it was a characteristic of him. A trait that _shaped_ him. He was unable to utter any truths, not even to himself.

My poor Mother! She had been caught in his web, in his spiral of illusions. She knew it. _Of_ _course_ _she did. _But she did not want to acknowledge it, for if she did, her frail psycho synthesis could not bear such a burden. And I would definitely not be the one that would open her eyes and that would force her to face reality. I would not become her executioner. I would not become the accuser of my Father. I could have claimed that that my intentions were noble, that I were afraid of my obnoxious parent and that I were protecting the woman who gave birth to me. But then, I would have fooled none. It was my duty, to protect the ones I still could, without causing any more havoc that it was bound to be caused. It was a Holmes's family dinner after all, drama was unavoidable.

"I am sure, father, there is nothing wrong." I smiled half-heartedly.

Sherlock continued to smirk derisively. Father's eyes glistened and he averted his gaze. I relaxed my reflexively tensed muscles and from the other side of the table I noticed that my little brother let out a breath that he had probably not realised he was holding. Crisis averted then.

"Mycroft, I heard that you helped, voluntarily, with the taxonomy of the books. Is that correct?"

"That is quite correct. It was a great chance to visit our library again."

"But surely, you had other things to occupy yourself with. More _important_ things. Yet, you chose to aid us."

_Oh God! There!_ He made his move. He threw his bait and he simply waited for the fish to bite. Sherlock clenched his jaw. I forced myself to wear the most pleasant and unassuming expression.

"I assure you, father, I had plenty of free time to spare."

"Still, your willingness is remarkable. Do not be so modest. Sherlock, did you help your brother at all?" _Oh_ God. Oh _God_! Sherlock focused his eyes at his plate, his composure unearthly still.

"No, Father. I did not." He practically whispered.

"And why is that?"

"I had other..." he trailed off "occupations."

"Dare I ask, which were these important occupations that prevented you from facilitating our household?" The pale boy's cheeks were flushed.

"I was conducting an experiment." He finally said through gritted teeth.

"Oh! An experiment! Surely, our little genius is very busy with revolutionizing the field of botanology, criminology… or was it medicine this time?" The beast's voice was sweet as honey, but the imminent danger was obvious in his body language and in his _sickening_ smile.

"Father, with all due respect-" I started.

"Stay out of this Mycroft!" he commanded. "You cannot get him out of this. Not this time! Unfortunately, not all people are born with your kind qualities and values." Sherlock was apathetic. _Too_ still. _Too_ silent. He stood up from his seat very slowly, his body rigid and his eyes still fixed on his plate. His chair creaks and Father's eyes bolted towards his direction.

"Where do you think you are going?"

"If you could excuse me." he never finished his sentence, his voice barely audible, "I would-" he took one hesitant step away from the table. Astonished, I observed our Father as he rose from his own chair, grabbed a handful of Sherlock's hair and by tugging him fiercely, brought him to his knees. His head was forced backwards and he arched his back to relieve the pain, while struggling to free himself from the strong grip. As a reward for his frantic efforts, a sturdy hand wrapped around his neck and my brother's mouth opened widely as he gasped for air. His eyes bolted open.

"Myc-" was the only choked sound he managed. Too shocked to react, I watched as his arms and legs flailed aimlessly and his eyes watered. The morbid scene was interrupted by my mother's scream. The devil that stood before me released his grip and turned to tend to his terrified wife. Fortunately, he released my little brother and he took wheezing breaths, panting heavily.

"Look what have you done! Are you happy? You hurt your own mother! Do you want to kill her? You know of her frail health! I bet you do, you ungrateful freak!" He screamed and thrashed, but this time, I stepped in front of the kneeling Sherlock; between him and the enraged man.

"Enough!" I stated calmly. The older man locked his eyes with mine, clearly surprised. "What are you doing?" his voice was low and dangerous, a mere hiss. How have I missed that? How have I missed the abusive nature of his? Me? Me! I took pride in my ability to observe and manipulate.

"Step out of the way, Mycroft, for I do not want to-"

"To do what?" I asked. I provoked him. I wanted to realise the extent of his insanity. I had to convince myself that, what I had just witnessed was not a horrible nightmare.

"Step away." He was calmer, but his tranquility did not fool me.

"_Step_." He approached me, his form menacing. "_Away_." He growled the words and he attacked me, displaying an unnatural speed and flexibility for his age. I blocked him by hitting his stomach with my fist, leaving him gasping and red with rage. I turned to grab Sherlock and get us both out of that forlorn place, but my younger brother was paralyzed with fear; his eyes were locked at something behind me. I followed his gaze and for a fleeting, horrifying moment, I saw my Father's figure launching another attack against the kneeling boy. I flung my arms open, forming with my body a protecting wall. My vision went black, and gravity seemed to overpower my body, as I feel backwards and my head hit the ground hard.

Another high pitched scream was heard. I gathered all of my remaining strength and opened my eyes, searching for her figure with unfocused eyes. I found her standing, clutching a white handkerchief in her hands and covering her mouth. She was watching Sherlock who was still on his knees, his torso bent forwards, his head was forced touching the ground and held there by a strong hand. Both of his hands were held behind his back, bent in an unnatural angle and his two wrists were trapped in the man's relentless grip. Sherlock fought back, desperate to be escape from the death grip and his tear-stained eyes were shut tightly, his lips bleeding from where he was biting them too hard.

The old man positioned himself in a way that he trapped the boy's kicking legs between his thighs by sitting down at his lower back and effectively pinned him to the ground. I could not move, I could not see straight, and I was panicking. I felt something warm trickling down my neck. Blood. Possibly a concussion. I felt my grip at reality slipping away, but the agonizing screams that were ripped out of my brother's throat kept me alert. After an undetermined amount of time passed, I stood on my shaky legs and I grabbed the edge of the sturdy wooden table to stabilize myself better. I noticed that his previous, earth shattering screams were silenced.

Blinded by anger – not fear – _anger_, I watched as my dear brother fought and cried and begged.

And his eyes were looking at me; pleading.

I watched as he thrashed and kicked.

And his eyes were looking at me; questioning.

And he bled and bled and bled. And he stopped fighting, and he stopped breathing.

And his eyes were looking at me; accusing.

Then, I saw the _monster_ wipe the blood off of him, smearing with it the child's porcelain face. He stood up, nonchalantly embraced tightly our mother and whispered.

"It had to be done. He has to learn. Don't you see? I hate it too."

My mother nodded and smiled at me. He passed over the cold body on the floor, never averting his piercing eyes from mine.

"Good night, Mycroft." My insides turned and my head was spinning.

We laid there all night, little pools of blood had formed around us, soaking our clothes, until the morning came. When the first light of dawn illuminated the room, I looked at his eyes. He looked back at mine. I could see nothing in them. They were cold mirrors; reflecting, not conveying sentiment.

"Good morning" he said. Then his eyes closed and his head lolled back. An unforgiving smirk was carved at his face. The smell of dried blood was lingering in the room.

And this is how the morning found us.


	2. Atlas

_**Beta'd by Firefly.1212! Thank you once again!**_

Atlas

_She told me not to step on the cracks  
I told her not to fuss and relax  
Pretty little face stopped me in my tracks  
But now she sleeps with one eye open  
That's the price she'll pay_

I took a knife and cut out her eye  
I took it home and watched it wither and die  
Well, she's lucky that I didn't slip her a smile  
That's why she sleeps with one eye open  
That's the price she'll pay

I said, hey, girl with one eye  
Get your filthy fingers out of my pie  
I said, hey, girl with one eye  
I'll cut your little heart out cause you made me cry

I slipped my hand under her skirt  
I said don't worry, it's not gonna hurt  
Oh, my reputation's kinda clouded with dirt  
That's why you sleep with one eye open  
But that's the price you pay

I said, hey, girl with one eye  
Get your filthy fingers out of my pie  
I said, girl with one eye  
Get your filthy fingers out my pie

_~A Girl with one eye by Ludes_

The morning light is bright. Too bright. Everything is exploding into a haze of coloured strings that dance with the atonic music. The threads twirl and tangle together and I assure myself it is fine. It is all fine. Ι lose my train of thought when textures are added to the chaotic blackness.

"Sherlock." Everything halts.

I attempt to turn on my side, towards the voice. It hurts. My ribs, my legs, my back. My hands trace invisible patterns on the marble floor, trying to bring back the violet strings, the untuned strings that are plucked by some unseen violinist. No luck, though.

"Sherlock. I'm leaving." I don't open my eyes. I can't, for I fear that everything will collapse around me, fast and violently. I fear that I am going to be sucked in the depths of the earth. Illogical, unfounded argument, but just because it isn't plausible doesn't mean that the prospect is rendered less terrifying.

Mycroft sighs and I hear him picking up his suitcase from the floor. He turns on his heels to leave.

"Caring is not an advantage, Mycroft." I say. I will not manage to stir his feelings, let alone make him feel guilty – of course not. I want to, desperately so. I want to climb under his skin and make him scream and itch. Make him at least recognise and understand, not hide behind pretentious visages. I want to see him suffer, like I have. How petty have I become, but still I crave for cheap revenge. He sees through my soft spoken words. He doesn't halt his long strides and I hear the soft clicking sound of the front door.

My heart is pounding, as I leap to my feet and run towards the help's door at the backside of the house. I don't stop to look at the bemused faces of the cook and our valet. I almost trip as I open the small door that leads to the garden. I don't know why I am crying. I am in mild to moderate physical pain, and I cannot fathom that my tears are due to any emotional weakness.

The air is chilling and the whistling noise in my ears as I run as fast as my legs will take me revives the colourful strings. They are red now; a warm shade of orange and ochre. I feel lighter as exhaustion creeps in to my tired legs and I kneel on the grass feeling it with my fingertips and inhaling the smell of mud and earth. That makes the strings dance in circles and change almost imperceptibly their colour to a darker shade of crimson. I don't dare to open my eyes, I don't want the blinding sun to chase away my subtle colours and baptize everything to its violet horror. I hate this colour and this smell. Sun smells of charcoal, of burnt out wood and flesh. And sun was always violet, a cold colour. Most people imagined the sun to be warm, red, fire. But the sun was never these things to me.

I can hear the bumblebees buzz and the little beetles scratching their legs, the ants working in lines, fighting for survival. I hate ants. They live monotonous lives, collecting and storing, like parsimonious, thrifty aged people, living in misery and loneliness. They create massive storages underground and die worrying for the future. They never live; they lack the hassle and lively movement of bees or of dragon flies.

When I was younger, I was afraid of becoming an ant. I would not allow it – I would become a bee. Bees are alive and they are a bright blue. Their societies are structured and complex, and they do not allow abuse of power.

Each hive has one queen, and a hundred female workers for each male drone bee. I want to be a worker bee. They are responsible for gathering nectar, guarding the hive and the honey, caring for the queen and larvae. The queen is hateful, that is the only drawback. Hateful but necessary. She only lays eggs whilst the droves help her.

"Sherlock!"

The rough voice sparks fireworks behind my eyelids. It always does. I take a deep breath. I will not allow this, whatever it is this time. I hear his footsteps approaching, I can imagine his shiny leather shoes crushing the lines of ants under his weight, and scaring off the bees as he runs, almost flies, to approach me. I am lying under our big oak tree. The shadow is comforting.

"Yes father." I almost spit the title. I kneel and try to stand up.

"You, ungrateful little…"

He is in a matter of seconds behind me and yanks me up by my collar. He jerks and pushes me against the tree. I can feel the rough texture of wood, as my head bumps hard and everything collapses again in a haze of cold colours. Unwanted, hostile colours that don't offer any comfort. They make my skin turn to ice, a million needles pricking and making me shiver. I open my eyes instinctively, to chase away the foes and I look straight into his eyes. He is breathing hard down my neck and the warm moisture is foreign. Disgusting.

I have so many things to say, but I can't. It wouldn't be wise.

"You ridiculed me last night," he hisses and grabs both of my wrists with his right hand. He pins them over my head. I do not struggle and close my eyes again. The colours don't seem so hostile right now. I am not sure if I am supposed to answer. If I am required to do so.

"I am sorry." I lower my head, faking shame, when in reality I am trying to hide my smirk that could be interpreted as provocative. The words seem hilarious said in my false low, afraid voice. He doesn't see through my act. Perhaps he does, but does not care.

"You deserve to be punished, right?" His other hand traces invisible lines on my chest and my skin is on fire. Like millions odious ants parade on me, with their little legs moving, running. I can't shake them off. He leans closer and I cannot distinguish where my body ends and where his starts.

"Be a good boy for me," he whispers.

I close my eyes and can only see white, a blinding blankness soft round the edges of my vision, while my fingertips feel a smooth velvety texture. I focus on that, the light and the silk. I feel my knees buckle, but I don't hit the ground. He grasps me and I can feel his nails digging on my skin, these spider fingers that I have seen clawing on my mother's shoulders'.

I try to be good. I really do. I try, whispering under my breath. _Hydrogen_. For Mother and even Mycroft. They cannot know, they cannot help. They don't deserve this. I don't either, but our lives are not our own.

"_Our lives are not our own. From womb to tomb, we are bound to others, past and present." _

Who used to say that? I have become an ant after all, that is all I can think of when my knees sink down to the grass and my hands wrap around the trunk of the tree seeking for support. Unfortunately, my hands slip and my head is yanked backwards.

_Helium._ I cannot breathe and I cannot see any more colours. I am alone.

_Lithium_. What if I my hand slipped and what if my head bowed? What if he lost his balance and banged his head on the tree? What if his blood would was spilt all over the green field, staining the earth, feeding the ground? _Mud to mud_. What if I was playing happily on the other side of the fence and as I saw him slip, my horrified scream notified the help? Would Mother…? No. she wouldn't.

_"All boundaries are conventions. One can transcend a convention if only one can conceive of doing so.… Separation is an illusion. My life extends far beyond me."_

I lie on my back and I don't _see_ coloured strings anymore. I don't see the galaxy, the stars. _I become a coloured string and I become the shape of me_. He cannot find me here. He cannot reach with those deathly pale hands and make me crawl out of my skin. I can shut everything else out off my head. I wander in an endless library, bigger than the Oxford library when my Mother and I visited on my eighth birthday, bigger than everyone in existence. I call it my palace. My own palace. It has no walls, and the sky is its ceiling. I always sit on my wooden desk as I open my files. I can reach my hand as far as I want. I can reach even the higher shelves, the most far away heavy books. I have no other room in my palace. All of my knowledge is systematically categorized here.

Mycroft has told me about his. He has a multitude of rooms, specifically dedicated to each and every little thing under the sun. It is our house, he told me. He has based his own palace on our house. How could he do that still remains a mystery to me. The shadow of that house overthrows everything and everyone. How can he let it into his mind? More importantly, how can he retreat there for peace? He doesn't need peace, he told me once. I didn't believe him then, but I do now. He has changed and he has become less him, less me, less human.

When I see blood trickling staining the green grass I am not sure if I loathe him or if I envy him.

Suddenly the buzzing sound echoing on my ears dies away and the numbing pressure on my skin retreats to the fleeting caress of the wind. I lie on my chest and I realise that I cannot breathe properly. I move to lie on my side and I cough struggling for breath.

I hear footsteps but I am too weary to care to move or even make myself look decent. Soft but strong hands embrace me and the smell of flour and freshly baked bread makes my eyes flutter under my closed eyelids, following the azure strings' dance and the soft pale blue light that fills my mind. The soft hands clothe me delicately and engulf me in a tight but comforting embrace. They pick me up and carry me, my legs failing to support me and hanging limply from her arms. A soft murmur is heard, but I am on fire, a fire that burns and paralyses me, and the droning sounds cannot be translated into words. I rest my head on the woolen fabric, inhaling the smell of soap and furnished wood. My fingers twitch and cling to the oversized overcoat and the rough fabric pinches my fingertips. It sends shivers down my already trembling body and the fire consumes me. I can feel and hear my blood rushing through my veins. The air that I inhale tastes like smoke and burns like acid. Everything is impossibly intensified; each noise and tremble of the leaves of the trees as we pass by, the noise of the footsteps on the grass.

I can feel the bump when we climb the stairs and the sweet relief of the absence of the howling air and the burning sunbeams as we enter the house. I can feel the soft mattress and pillow under my head, my body welcoming the warmth and evenness, the lack of stimuli, of irritating and painful nails biting at my subconscious. She doesn't ask; we have done this countless times. I feel a lukewarm damp linen towel touching me fleetingly, removing blood and dirt no doubt. She sits on the bed and her weight pushes the mattress down, I roll by her side. She doesn't touch me, doesn't speak, doesn't even breathe too deeply or too loudly. We sit like that and I almost feel the slumber embracing me in a tight embrace but her words make my eyes bolt open.

"Sunt hic etiam praemia laudi;" she says. She takes a deep breath and sighs.

"Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt." She reaches to remove the beads of sweat trickling down my forehead before they get into my eyes.

"Solve metus; feret haec aliquam tibi fama salutem." She drops her hand.

I am already sleeping by the time she stands up and closes the door ever so softly.

That night I dream of endless corridors and silent eruptions. I dream of Mycroft coming to visit me and standing before me like a marble statue. When I touch his hand, he's bleeding colours and when I breathe I taste wood and the depths of the sea. I try to fly away and I become lost, unable to grasp solid soil, just floating away. I open my eyes and extend my arms and I smell salt and iodine. Waves and rocks flutter under my touch.

The next morning I wake up and taste, smell, touch, see, _feel_ the blankness.

I don't envy him all that much after all.


End file.
